Ten to Twenty
by BladeOfFarfalla
Summary: “Insanity is the only sane reaction to an insane society." Years after the destruction of Raccoon City,survivor Claire Redfield copes with guilt of her decisions,and the feat of attempting normalcy. AU- Eventually Leon/Claire, maybe Wesker/Claire
1. Prologue

A.N: Resident Evil belongs to Capcom etc. I don't own, just like to use. This is my first attempt at writing fiction in a LONG time, and actually posting it. I'm looking for a beta who uses YIM- anyone interested drop me an email.

EDIT: This is AU obviously, since the whole Degen thing soon so just go with it mmkay?

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**Prologue**

_There's footsteps down the hall, I'm running desperately to catch those footsteps before someone else does. I call her name, "Sherry! Sherry!" but there's no sound. Not even my voice, but I hear my heartbeat and the echoes of my screams in this place. My boots thump indiscreetly on the wood, somewhere glass shatters; there's hungry moans that I know are erupting but yet they are not. Those invisible cries are threatening to overpower me always._

_I come to a hallway, a waiting room with red suede sofa's that match the blood and broken glass on the floor. A terrifyingly dark hallway stretches out before me, I know before looking at it that there's a door boarded up and it's not a good idea to try to go that way. I hardly taken in account of a radio I'm supposed to have received is squawking my name, "Claire! Claire are you there? Do you copy? Over-"_

_Yes, over. Those footsteps again, light and with purpose reach my ears and I'm off and running again. Weariness is clawing through me much like the hungry moans want to be, I wonder whose sick idea it was at the station to grow herbs instead of leaving pain reliever around; that I'll obviously need for my head after this. I would blame my brother, but he prefers nicotine over herb any day._

_Against my better judgment I stop at a sign that says S.T.A.R.S._

_ I don't need to read the abbreviation explanation underneath to know what it stands for. I know that it's my brothers old office, on days off from college I would visit him when he would do nothing but play guitar,and flirt with officer Valentine. I open the door and try not to feel heartbroken over the fact that I find his jacket, but not him. I guess I've grown used to it, permanent absence. My world flickers in and out, and I know what's about to happen, I think it before I say it._

_"Leon!" A handsome, young and terrified man answers with the same vigor, "Claire!"_

_For a moment I forget the footsteps, and let his warm, strong hand on my shoulder be the pinnacle of the world for me. I've known him in reality for seven years, but really only in our minds for seven hours. His storm wracked blue eyes stare is something I've never forgotten,even in my chase; I remembered it and balked at my stupidity when I left him bleeding in that hallway. So many choices, run, don't run, fight, don't fight. There's an irony later I'll discover about how I mentally order my priorities._

_When he leaves, I am bound again to find my chicken far before I've ever laid my egg. My rooster is saving his feathers for another, bigger occasion he'll encounter very soon. This is where things speed up, the desperation and the nonsensical insanity fuel me more than anything undead could ever be jonesing for flesh. Except, there's something different, I don't know why I'm searching for a cure- the person it's intended for has been lost in footsteps and the justifications of my priorities. Tightly, I clutch at a vial of nothingness, and this time, I can hear my words aloud: "Sherry Birkin, where are you?"_

_The vial drops as a face surfaces to the glass, it's hers, but as it is probably now. She's beautiful, for some reason I don't shiver at the similarities between her father and oddly enough; Alexia. At this, other faces are surfacing to the glass tubes to peer at me with cold, tyrant enhanced eyes. You shouldn't be able to hear words spoken under water, but I can hear whispers from a tube across from Sherry's. _

"_Claire..." a voice croaks, I don't stop myself from embracing the cold surface, it's not really me trying to hold a naked boy in my arms, who I know is dead. Probably. I'm not listening to him profess his undying, but realistically dead love for me. _

_A shadow falls over me, seething into my consciousness and familiar gloved hands wrap around my neck._

_I'm not even angry as those black, leather gloves squeak in tightening around my windpipe. They're inhumanely graceful; it would almost be erotic if I didn't know the man inside those gloves._

"_What do you think Miss Redfield?" His voice purrs inside my skull, and I say without saying._

_About what Wesker? God, the devil, man, and you?_

_"Inside all these tubes incubates several ego's and ambitions, but most of your love and toil. Right Wesker?"_

_He rubs the pulse that should be beating in hummingbird nature, and without seeing I know he's displeased at how apathetic I am towards the revolving door of our situation._

_"Give the girl a break Albert, after awhile your genius turns into the wax built up in our ear canals."_

_I smell Benedict Arnold, over easy and unfortunately- not cheap in taste. Morals however, yes._

_Ada Wong is the true zombie to me, Umbrella could not have done a finer job of enhancing her misanthropic tendencies. Except to me, in this paradigm of memory and foresight she is as my mind demands her to be now. Bandaged, and unfortunately beautiful. I can see why he loves her, Leon; his attraction to broken goods is astronomical. _

_"Let her go Wesker." He is his old self, not his programmed, prepackaged secret agent persona. No, instead he's all his hope, naivete and anger from when I left him injured to go find my brother. _

_Again. This crushes me, it always does._

_What happens next is this: Three guns, cocked and loaded all point in a wondrous triangle. I can no longer feel Wesker crushing my neck, but I can feel the radiation of lovelorn spewing off in merciless epitaphs of what was, and what could be. It's almost a comfort that the man about to end my existence is a megalomaniac; can get what he wants and doesn't exhibit human emotion. That is, until my brother finally gets his head out and finally accomplishes at being heroic._

_Jesus._

_I close my eyes, and think with amusement over the fact that God doesn't exist to me anymore. _

_I stop hearing again, but I don't need subtitles to know what happens next. Two shots are fired, from Wesker; but before Leon and Ada can die like a proper Shakespearean tragedy they ricochet off the glass tubes that hold what was once dear to me. _

_A rush of water, and my neck is free for now- but now I'm drowning. _

_I bump into bodies floating with me, they're dead, like I will be momentarily. Hazy reflections of florescent light filter under my eyelids as I open them and look around. I meet the sight of two fetal poised bodies, my arms open instinctively to cradle the now child Sherry, now dead. Cold arms grip around my waist, and I don't fight against Steve pulling me down into the depths where I belong._

_Dead like him. _

_Like them._

_I've accepted this._

_Though it doesn't matter, because all of this has been a dream; and the radio is squawking again. _

"Claire? Are you there? You have a call on line two, I think it's Chris."

Of course it is. Reoccurring, the irony of nightmares and life astounds me.

I open my eyes, rub the sub-reality from them in gobs of dust and mascara and answer the phone.

"Hello, this is Claire Redfield at the law offices of Burton and Coen, how can I direct your call?"


	2. Different ways of counting fingers

A.N: Resident Evil belongs to Capcom etc. I don't own, just like to use. This is my first attempt at writing fiction in a LONG time, and actually posting it. I'm looking for a beta who uses YIM- anyone interested drop me an email. It took me a long time to get the second chapter rolling, but I have a clearer idea as to where it will end up. I know, I ended it abruptly but I have a hard time writing Leon- I want to get back to Claire XD

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_**Chapter One**_

The chairs in the therapist's office are ridiculous.

They're bright green. The shape of limes, or some dumb fruit that should never be made into a chair.

I've escaped apocalyptic cities, killed hordes of nightmarish creatures; all on my first day as a police officer. I watched an entire town get nuked into nothing.

I've killed people, lots of people. Saved people, important political figures and so on and so forth.

I saved the goddamn Presidents daughter.

You know what they tell me? They tell me: "Dr. Keenan is on maternity leave; all our residents in the psychological department are in a conference for the APA. Try getting a referral from a higher "up".

By "up" they mean have one of my department heads fill out a shit load of paperwork so I can see a local shrink.

I don't know any of my department heads who'd do that, especially for me. I may be an invaluable asset to "their" department, but were so backed up with orders from "them" that our team of...

Hold on, I have to think for a minute, I believe it's 30; we've been in the field for months now. MONTHS. We're on a proverbial goose chase for whatever reason, they've expended our resources past the point of insanity. They just keep patting us on our head, and telling us were serving our country beautifully.

If we could afford it, we'd wipe our asses with the tax dollars the American people unknowingly send us. Just to get even, maybe to hinder the destruction we've already wrought.

But of course, we can't afford to do that. We're in so deep that the only way we'll ever get out is to die, or run to France, but to most of us it's essentially the same concept.

There's a few die hard patriots with us still.

Those being the newbs who haven't been fully broken in yet, and the old guys who sit at a desk now. The rest are somewhat neutral, that of course leaves us with the rest of us. We're special.

We have more connections, we've seen things we shouldn't have. So now they've got us in a sort of disturbed witness protection program. Where we protect them. Indentured servants if you will, as a price for what we've seen, and they give us a five to six figure salary. Sometimes.

It's a Swiss bank account situation. Oh and they don't kill the ones we love, etc. I happen to be the latter of the three groups, so call me special.

I Leon S. Kennedy, am an indentured servant to the U.S government, etc. Just for being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I won't lie though, the benefits are kick ass when Holiday's roll around, or when a particularly good take down occurs. And you know, the dental.

This though, these fucking fruit chairs. The endless repeat of Brian Eno and Moby. Did I also mention I'm surrounded by children? As in, the goddamn boss man, the only one willing to accede into my request sent me to a fucking child therapist. Thank you Uncle Sam, you cheap prick.

Thank you Hunnigan, I'll never compliment you on your hair again. She never does shit with it anyway.

I stretch out and pop every joint that can possibly pop, my spine rattles like a xylophone. The mothers of these children keep giving me sideways glances; I don't know whether in fear, or arousal. Maybe it's both.

Either way, I'm lacking any feeling towards the subject. I'm not here to pick up any MILF'S or preteen drama queens. I'm here because I fucked up.

Or as my boss put it: "You're going on paid leave, we can't afford one of our best agents to com-"

I interrupted him at this point and said, "Compromise our position? Compromise our "national" security? Fuck up? Have a break down in the middle of a combat zone? AWOL?"

I am irreplaceable, but I am also an irrevocable within my situation. So I say to him:

"Too late."

He asks for my passport, my department ID. It hits the two way mirror where I know I'm being watched. To be technical, I'm on secret agent probation. If I were James Bond I'm sure my double 00 status would be revoked- and M's foot would be up my ass.

But it doesn't work that way in the United States of America. When they get desperate, they recruit the assholes we expand our resources to track down and find.

Ultimately, I am a fly amongst spiders at times. Shaken, not stirred; thankfully though, I don't work for internal revenue.

When half the kiddies have gone, I assume I'll be called soon. In an hour I've gone through every stupid magazine within the vicinity of this place; I take tests in Red book, Glamour and Vogue. I also know what kind of fishing lure I'll have to purchase to bring in big bass. As I'm completing my: "How to give your partner the best oral sex, EVER" survey, I notice there's only one girl left in the room with me. There's a girl sitting next to me that I hadn't noticed was there; her hands are clasped crisply and her gaze is burning away at the neon EXIT sign.

Ripping out my survey results, I stuff them in the pocket of my slacks, her gaze darts to me inquisitively.

"I want to put the results on the fridge, as a motivational booster," I reply musingly to her look. She huffs, and in a voice too old for her physique she says: "What did you get?"

I stare at her, and yeah I'm a bit unnerved at the jail bait feeling I'm currently getting. She yawns and stretched her multi-colored tights adorned legs on the coffee table.

"Yesterday, in May's issue of Red book I got a 99 on the, "Master of Foreplay" test," she grins and asks me again, " So what did you get?" I cough it out, unable to hide my mortification and she laughs dryly.

" 85 on the fellatio quiz huh? Well, certainly better then most," she winks and closes her eyes, feigning sleep.

Vainly, I am attempting to hide my horror- for several reasons besides the apparent. Though, she knows I'm scrutinizing her, it doesn't detract me from being freaked out and noticing the eerie things about her appearance.

She has medium length blonde hair, pulled back with a blue head band; her outfit suggests teenage rebellion, with the gaudy colors and showing of skin. It isn't that that frightens me though, it's her face; severity, dubious curiosity, loss of innocence. It isn't until she notices me fully gaping at her I confirm my paranoia.

Her eyes are big, and blue-green. They're sad, angry and-betrayed.

"Dude, what the hell are you staring at?" She says annoyed, I don't say anything; it's because I can't stop seeing Sherry, Sherry Birkin. I flush, "I'm sorry kid, you just remind me of someone I know...used to know." She huffs again, and pops her watermelon smelling bubblegum, "I'm only allowing you to call me kid, because I know you're like thirty or something."

"Twenty-seven." I defend myself, halfheartedly.

I slump down in my seat, and pray to God that I get called soon; or else something else concerning might deteriorate. Barely minutes pass before I hear her shift in her seat, towards my direction.

"Is that why you're here?" I am balked by her perception, "Something like that."

"So does she go here?"

"No, I'm actually here by a mix up...it's a paperwork thing."

Another few minutes dredge on, my hands clench the fucking fruit chair until my knuckles turn white. It isn't my imagination, it isn't me going crazy-er; she looks like Sherry should look at this age, maybe even a little older. I add to my prayer to God, that the shrink throws in some anti-something pills.

"Are you a cop?" I laugh at this, "Used to be," I say.

"What are you now?"

" A probationary government agent."

She pops her gum loudly at this, in almost recognition. "You're the guy that saved Ashley huh?" This, unfortunately gains my full attention.

"I thought that was sensitive material," I whisper to her, dumbfounded at how the hell she knows. She snorts, "There's more then a few reasons Graham shouldn't be re-elected. One of them being his daughters big fucking mouth."

Yeah, I say, I know.

"That's all she could ever talk about at school, she went on like the two of you screwed or something."

She wishes.

No, I think, not even tempted. I have a few rules of conduct I live by: I don't usually do blonde's, somewhat minors, and girls who look like Sherry Birkin as well.

"It's company policy not to have sex with the commander and chief's offspring." She grins again at this, "Well, at least you're more admirable then some- I could tell you stories about some of the suits there."

I bet she could, and I'm beginning to wonder exactly who this paranoia fueled, loud mouthed cloned is.

"So, who do you belong to?" Her eyes roll back into her skull, she scoots away and the eerie gaze is again, focused on the neon of the EXIT.

"A senator, for security reasons I can't disclose who," I've heard this line before, it means that daddy and mommy politician don't want anyone to know that their little girl is seeing help.

There is a tightness in my chest that begins; I know it's the beginnings of the almost uncontrollable rage I've experienced since getting back. I see this girl, this seemingly privileged individual, and I can see the truth etched out on her; she's alone most of the time, her parents don't care unless she causes trouble. She replaces the emptiness in her life by being promiscuous. Every time she lets another pretty boy socialite into her bed, she accidentally let's them into her heart. She is crushed, and the people in her life that should care send her here; for Xanax, Prozac and whatever fucking advice that's ultimately useless.

Nothing is wrong with this girl, except for the years of betrayal and abandon that will ultimately destroy her.

I stand up, I don't need to see a therapist. These feelings that have manifested cannot be fixed by pills or idle chatter, I need to see someone; someone else. Taking out my wallet I fish my "business" card out and hand it to her, "If you ever need someone to talk to, that isn't being paid to listen, give me a call," I say softly, meeting her eyes. She takes it tentatively and flips it around, "Leon S. Kennedy?" I nod, "That's me."

"Why are you doing this? You don't even know me."

"That's the point, this isn't some pick up, believe me I have better things to do then engage in pedophilia. I've just realized a few things, because of you, call it a thank you of a sorts." Swallowing and biting her bottom lip she ignores when the receptionist calls her name.

I let her think over it as I walk out the door; the receptionist doesn't try to stop me, but she jumps and spills her coffee all over her blouse as I slam the door shut.

Another door abruptly closed, another option thrown out the open window.

* * *

As I'm sitting in the drivers seat of my jeep I search through the contacts on my P.D.A.- I scroll down to "R" and go to the second name on the list. Redfield, Claire. I know the information is up to date because Barry sends it to me every time she decides to pick up and leave; shortly after her brother does the same. This time, however, she's managed to stay in one place for a long enough duration for me to contact her without worrying about: _"The number you are trying to reach is no longer a working number. "_

Barry, under strict orders from the doctor and the exasperated Mrs. Burton decided to hang up his holster and work on atonement through another means. Through a collaborative effort, former S.T.A.R.S members and other Raccoon survivors have set up an inquiry station; as a means for other survivors to contact them for help, or to be used as a tip hot line. It's nonprofit, but doesn't turn down donations; every paycheck I receive ends up being split in half and sent there.

I dial her home number first, it must be around eight her time, she might be home.

"_Hi, you've reached Claire. I'm not home right now, but I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can."_

Her message is different from the last apartment she had, it's colder, more robotic; or I might be imagining things. I scroll through her contact information again and reach the number for the Law offices of Burton and Coen.

I hit the green dial button, and wait.

It rings, once, twice, a third time and-

"Hello this is Debbie at the Law offices of Burton and Coen how may I direct your call?"

I swallow, and realize I haven't spoken to Claire since I left for Spain over a year ago.

"Hello? Are you there?"

"Yes,uh, sorry is Claire Redfield available?" The sound of a hand covering the receiver, and a beep informs me that I've been put on hold. I wait, and Debbie's voice filters through again.

"Claire are you there? You have a call on line two, I think it's Chris."

She must be new, if she wasn't she would know the difference between the elder Redfield's voice and my own. Another beep ensues, and an extremely groggy Claire replies, "Hello, this is Claire Redfield at the law offices of Burton and Coen, how can I direct your call?" I would laugh at her automatic response, but now is not the time.

"I don't know whether to offended, or honored that I've been mistaken for Chris," I can hear her blinking, thinking and rubbing her eyes from thousands of miles away. It takes her a second or two, but she eventually responds.

"Leon?"

"The one and only, Ms. Redfield."


End file.
